#Irish #NobelPrize #XIXCentury #XXCentury
HOW came this ranger Now sunk in rest, Stranger with strangcr. On my cold breast? What’s left to Sigh for?
(For Harry Clifton) I HAVE heard that hysterical women say They are sick of the palette and fiddle-… Of poets that are always gay, For everybody knows or else should know
GOD guard me from those thoughts men th… In the mind alone; He that sings a lasting song Thinks in a marrow-bone; From all that makes a wise old man
I went out alone To sing a song or two, My fancy on a man, And you know who. Another came in sight
‘THOUGH logic choppers rule the town, And every man and maid and boy Has marked a distant object down, An aimless joy is a pure joy,’ Or so did Tom O’Roughley say
ALL the heavy days are over; Leave the body’s coloured pride Underneath the grass and clover, With the feet laid side by side. One with her are mirth and duty;
All things can tempt me from this craft… One time it was a woman’s face, or worse… The seeming needs of my fool-driven land… Now nothing but comes readier to the han… Than this accustomed toil. When I was y…
#1910 #TheGreenHelmetAndOtherPoems
I HAVE heard the pigeons of the Seven… Make their faint thunder, and the garden… Hum in the lime-tree flowers; and put aw… The unavailing outcries and the old bitt… That empty the heart. I have forgot awh…
THERE is grey in your hair. Young men no longer suddenly catch their… When you are passing; But maybe some old gaffer mutters a bles… Because it was your prayer
FOR one throb of the artery, While on that old grey stone I Sat Under the old wind-broken tree, I knew that One is animate, Mankind inanimate fantasy’.
Suddenly I saw the cold and rook-deligh… That seemed as though ice burned and was… And thereupon imagination and heart were… So wild that every casual thought of tha… Vanished, and left but memories, that sh…
They hold their public meetings where Our most renowned patriots stand, One among the birds of the air, A stumpier on either hand; And all the popular statesmen say
#1928 #TheTower
WHAT need you, being come to sense, But fumble in a greasy till And add the halfpence to the pence And prayer to shivering prayer, until You have dried the marrow from the bone?
HERE is fresh matter, poet, Matter for old age meet; Might of the Church and the State, Their mobs put under their feet. O but heart’s wine shall run pure,
He. Dear, I must be gone While night Shuts the eyes Of the household spies; That song announces dawn. She. No, night’s bird and love’s
